James Mace - Soldier of Rome - The Centurion

“I look back on one particular rebel whom I killed with my pickaxe. He was little more than a boy and of no threat to us. What was the point of his death? I blame the selfishness of the Senate as much as I blame Sacrovir. The reign of terror that the remnants of the rebellion wrought in Lugdunum stemmed from this. So many people died such violent deaths, and I cannot help but think that many of them did not have to.”

“Not a pacifist are you, sir?” Metellus asked, causing Artorius to laugh.

It must have seemed baffling that one of the most well-known Centurions within the Twentieth Legion was speaking out against war.

“Not at all,” Artorius replied. “The wars against the Germanic Alliance were totally justified, and I regret nothing that we did. I took no pleasure in much of the killing, particularly that of their women and children. Much of it still haunts me; however, it was a brutal necessity. I believe in wars of conquest and of retribution. What I do not support are wars of convenience, started by fat aristocrats who avoid the fighting and dirty work. Of course, when we joined the legions we gave up our right to pick and choose where we fight. We don’t have to like it, but we have to show up and do our duty.”

“Kind of like our war against the Frisians,” Metellus observed, bringing a hard glare from Artorius, which made the young legionary nervous. “My apologies, sir.”

“No, you are right,” Artorius replied, shaking his head. “When we destroyed the rebellion of Sacrovir and Florus, our losses were minimal. No one questioned why they had rebelled, we just accepted that they had and our punishments were just. Against the Frisians we have paid a terrible price, and the Senate has betrayed the memories of those slain by dismissing the war as a simple misunderstanding. They only begrudgingly acknowledged Tribune Cursor’s awarding of the Grass Crown, yet they will grant him no further accolades or recognition. It’s as if what we went through never happened.”

“That’s easy for them to believe,” Metellus growled, his own horrible memories of Braduhenna gnawing at him. “Those bastards did not see the carnage and pain.”

The two years since becoming Procurator of Judea had been a challenge for Pontius Pilate. The Jews were by far the most fickle, difficult, and unpleasant people he had ever dealt with. How Herod Agrippa had maintained such a lifelong friendship with the Emperor baffled him. Still, it was this friendship that made Pilate’s life a misery at times, for Tiberius was fond of Herod, and therefore, sympathetic to the wills of Herod’s people. Anytime a dispute arose between Pilate and the Sanhedrin, the Jewish elders would threaten to go to the Emperor and make their grievances directly to him. The fact that they made good on this threat a few times already had soured Pilate’s relations with them.

“The Emperor expects me to maintain the peace, and yet he bows to the Jews at every perceived offence,” he vented as he pored over edicts and protocols requiring his attention.

“The Jews are offended if a Roman, or any non-Jew for that matter, dares to breathe the same air as them,” his freedman clerk observed.

Pilate snorted in reply.

“They are an arrogant people, no doubt about that. It is only because Tiberius allows them to worship their one God that they think themselves better than those who rule them. I’ve tried to be patient with them, but every act I do seems to offend them, even when they benefit from it!”

“You are speaking of the aqueduct?” the freedman asked.

Pilate nodded. “I am. They wanted an aqueduct, and the city has benefited from it. But who did they expect to pay for it? Themselves? Hardly! Their temple has mountains of gold that they get in offerings to their strange deity. Well, if God is supposed to be there for them, then why wouldn’t He want His temple funds used to give His people fresh and ample water supply? But no! The second I ordered the temple to pay for the aqueduct the Sanhedrin were up in arms as if I had raped their mothers!”

“Perhaps we should, since they’re going to complain anyway.”

The freedman’s attempt at humor only soured Pilate’s mood, though he pretended not to hear.

“Those damned auxiliaries are of no help either,” he ranted. “I’ve begged the Syrian Legate to, at least, attach a cohort of legionaries to Judea. He swears they are all needed in Syria, which hasn’t had a real crisis in decades! Of course, he promises to ‘clean up my mess’ should things go to shit here.”

“Samaritan auxiliaries don’t make the most disciplined soldiers,” the clerk conceded. “Mostly they just bully the people while enforcing taxation…whether taxes are due or not!”

“They don’t make us many friends,” Pilate added. “Bastards can’t follow orders either. When the Jews rebelled about the aqueduct, I specifically told them to disperse the crowd with batons and avoid unnecessary bloodshed. What do they do? They use their swords and kill a bunch of citizens instead!” Pilate then walked over to the window that overlooked the city. He was thankful that he spent most of his time in the port of Caesarea, rather than that stink hole, Jerusalem. He could not fathom what was so special and holy about that infernal place to the Jews.

Just then the door was opened, and he smiled for the first time all day as Claudia walked in. His wife sensed what vexed him, and she placed an arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. The clerk bowed and left the room.

“I feel alone, Claudia,” Pilate said as he breathed in the sea air on a gentle breeze. “Sejanus told me this would be a difficult task, but that if I succeeded here, only the gods could know what honors await me. It wouldn’t be such a hellish burden if that bastard Lamia would just give me some support!”

“Lamia is stuck in Rome,” Claudia observed, “so what good can he do you?”

“He is still Governor of Syria,” Pilate sighed. “Yet Tiberius does not trust him and will not let him leave Rome, so he cannot even see firsthand what is happening here. He adamantly refuses to send me even a single cohort of legionaries to assist me.”

“Do you have any friends who could help?” his wife asked as she gently ran her fingers up and down his back.

Pilate nodded, though there was no optimism in his expression.

“The one man who would be willing to help is, unfortunately, in no position to do so.”

“You mean Artorius,” Claudia observed, after a seconds thought.

Pilate turned and looked his wife in the eye.

“You know what happened to him then?” he asked.

Claudia glanced at the floor and gave a sad nod.

“I received a letter from Diana,” she replied. “It came with the imperial post, which I suspect is how you heard.”

“Only the official reports which were scant at best. Sejanus added a few words, mentioning Artorius by name. No doubt he did this as a courtesy to me. After all, what does the whole of the Empire care about a thousand dead legionaries, as long as they won the battle?” There was bitterness in his voice and the expression on Claudia’s face told him that she knew better than to pursue the issue further.

“What about Justus?” she asked after a minute’s pause. “He’s your friend, too, and he is just over the border in Syria.”

Pilate gave a sad smile and shook his head.

“You forget his outburst at our prenuptial feast where he grossly insulted Sejanus,” he replied.

Claudia furrowed her brow.

“They had a spat,” she observed. “But they had both been drinking and it could not have been that bad.”

“When one says ‘fuck you’ to the Emperor’s right hand, it is usually not a good omen,” Pilate responded. “Justus is lucky to still hold his position as a Centurion in the Sixth Legion. Sejanus would have ruined him were he not my friend. No, though Justus would doubtless jump at the chance to help restore some dignity and order to this gods forsaken place, he has been relegated to obscurity.”